


Punker In A Bunker

by presidentpunk



Category: The Clash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28756059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentpunk/pseuds/presidentpunk
Summary: Behemoths in apocalyptic England force Mick Jones into a bunker with Joe Strummer who saves him, and needs saving. Paul is there, too.
Relationships: Mick Jones/Joe Strummer
Kudos: 3





	Punker In A Bunker

It starts with a bang. That of a flimsy grenade, thrown in desperate adrenaline. It's enough for the monster to convulse and slip away. Mick drops heavily onto dirt. 

Weapons save lives. Too bad he's unarmed since the apocalypse started, and a stranger has to jump in. He offers a hand, too, along with his name. 

Everything seems ordinary about Joe. The pompadour on his black hair, the holes on his cargo knees, the stains on his combat boots. Ordinary seems good about now. That's why Mick agrees on tagging along.

They depend on killing dead air, but in the Hamsterley Forest, Joe spares attention. "They're stalking our bunker. Around the corner."

"Who?"

"I'll distract them, you find Paul." 

Mick doesn't know Paul, but is left in the darkness. It's not figurative, it's terrifying. The chase after aid is greedy until cut short. 

"Oi," nudges a slicked blonde, "Who you with?"

"Um… Joe. He's -"

"Yeah," he treats it as a code to his backpack, "Grab a bomb. The crowd is tough."

It's the best Mick can do, copying death beside two kids. He knows he did well. They let him know when they win, and add to the prize by showing him around. There's not much to discover, so they're free to rest in shelter. Small but safe. It feels somewhat like home, which promptly knocks him to sleep.

When his eyes open, they need a moment to adjust to the poor lighting. Mick surveys the salad of clutter he didn't notice before. Subtly disturbed, he rolls from the couch right underneath the ladder he first entered over. Now that his instincts are recovered, he gives in to organizing the foreign. One cleaning later, he's busy glaring at all the grime in disguise, when a metallic clank whips him around. 

Joe climbs in with cautious steps, as if he isn't used to the concept. Or by chance he tries not to wake their newcomer, judging by his surprise at Mick being up already.

"What are you doing?" Joe's voice is husky by default, but he now sounds on edge.

"Making some order. Sorry, I can't stand rubbish."

"Oh." Joe searches for something by once-over. When Mick hands him the scratch pad he found under a hoard of crumpled paper, he repeats, "Oh."

"It looked important," explains Mick. "Don't worry, I can tell."

"Okay," accepts Joe. "I brought food. You should eat."

"I have every intention." The canned beans are toothsome. "Where'd you get it?"

"There's a network."

Mick gapes at the idea of functional trade amidst wartime. He can't imagine, so he tries to scrutinize proof from Joe's posture. The way he claims a table for thoughts reassures Mick by safe hands. He takes the example to sketch old memories. It takes two products and two hours for Joe to notice.

"What's that?"

"Guitars."

"You play?"

"Did."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Miss it."

"You could build one."

"I thought we're saving material."

When Joe doesn't answer, Mick looks up from the sketch. Joe looks away from somewhere else. 

Mick ponders. "I'll try," he decides.

"I'll help." Joe returns to his own spot. 

They're apart, yet closer.

Soon, Paul joins with fresh awareness. "That Gibson looks great, mate! You know, I used to play bass. Epiphone. She was great!"

"That's perfect!" smiles Mick. "We're actually looking to build instruments. Want me to include yours?"

"Are you kidding? Sign me up! Finally, a project that's worthwhile. Joe is always obsessed with those boring strategies. I mean, it saves our arses sometimes, but I'm telling him we need a spark 'round here. Thank God you're a part of the band now."

Joe rolls his eyes. "There is no god."

Paul ignores him, tackles Mick instead. "Can you draw my bass now?"

"Sure. Talk to me."

The talking goes on until midnight. By then, they finish the structural part which they hand to Joe. Mick suggests sleep. Paul agrees. Joe as well, presumably. He reacts when Mick meets the couch, at least.

"Take my bed."

"It's no problem."

"Then take it."

Joe will not face any frowns, but he pretends it's worry he notes.

"What about you?"

"I'm done in a bit."

"Then I can wait."

Joe turns around, exposing the border of burnout in creases and shadows. "Why?"

"You tell me."

One hides twice, the other perseveres. He approaches the table, studies the gathered components.

"My sketches are messy. It's a wonder I recognize them after, so allow me to justify," Mick skips the approval, and begins narrating in murmurs. He minds letting Paul catch a break across the room.

It pays off with Joe struggling to stay awake. "I get it now," he announces, then passes out.

Mick drapes his own Jack Orton over the sleeping form, replaces it with Joe's bedsheets.

Somewhere around morning, Mick finds what he expects. Joe put together the main body of all three guitars, and is now comparing details from design. Mick provides company and creative outlet. He even gets Joe to eat, distracted by circumstance. It's technical at this point, and there's mercy for conversation.

"What do you think, would behemoths hate music?"

"Behemoths?" Mick's tilt is interrupted by Joe reaching for his head.

"Are you injured?" sweats Joe. "Don't you remember?"

"What? No, no, I'm fine, Joe. It's just - did you mean monsters?" 

"Huh?"

"That's what we call them. Where I'm from, that is. Wandsworth, by the way." The only reply is a thoughtful stare, so he adds, "You know England. Move a metre, and the dialect changes five times."

This time, he earns a small huff. As they return to work, Mick remembers. "Oh, and, I don't know about music like the British hymn, but they'd wholly love our songs. We'll practice for them."

"Yeah, no, but… I think they're sensitive to certain sounds."

"Really? What kind?"

"Not sure. My best guess, based on observation, would be… noise from objects… sending out very big sound waves… in a very short time."

"Like explosives?"

"Exactly. That's why I insist on stocking them."

"Interesting… Helpful..." awes Mick. "That info has potential." Suddenly, the scrapes in front of him double in significance. "We might be onto something…"

Not long after that, Paul barges straight from oversleeping, and the topic changes to why capitalism is awful. Opinions don't differ, pictures are enriched. They quiet down only for their own music, when their instruments are ready for testing.

Instructions flourish a whole concert, and with it an audience, scratching the door to hear better. Desperation is ignored, danger forgotten. The musicians unwind, breathing not for long. The ceiling shakes with the rage of a dozen monsters.

"I think they liked it," shrugs Mick, shaking off anxieties to evoke any ideas. Joe is quicker.

"I'll distract them, you get the weapons."

"Where?"

"Follow me," Paul drags Mick to the opposite side, Joe leaves his. They turn a new layer of surface sprouting weaponry, and discuss a rough plan.

Out on the battlefield, violence is planted. Though, not in a mindless way, it has a face of tactic. Mick's strumming attracts a wave of aggression that is gradually thumped by Joe, Paul, and skilled aim. Luring and locking. The traps are worth survival, and so is hope. 

Domination regained, victory hides no more. Neither does a last hit. When Joe waltzes through the centre, that's when he realizes. Emotion is more than wanderlust, poems are less than raw outcry, and love, love forever equals death. It's a second of luck that interferes, and tips the balance in his favour. Bad dies, worse suffers, for there is no good in defiance. 

However, there is nothing to fight, so he believes in fighting.

It ends with a bang.

**Author's Note:**

> They banged.


End file.
